Patchwork Memories
by Maddie
Summary: Set several years after the end of season three. After years in the big city she had returned to Paradise. To the memories that would always be part of her. Claire. Major character death implied. One shot.


**Patchwork Memories**

Claire pushed aside the soft muslin curtain and peeked out into the bright sunlight. The boys were playing a vigorous game of leap frog, taking turns jumping over one another, and shrieking with delight each time one, or both fell down. Little whirlwinds of dust billowed from their scurrying feet, and a grey coating clung to their clothes and faces. It would do no good to warn them to take care of their clothing. _Boys will be boys_ , she thought, smiling to herself. They certainly seemed happy living in the country. They loved the open fields and sheltering woods, the horses, cows and even the chickens, though they squabbled about who would feed what. She was glad they were happy with this new life, but she missed the vibrant activity of the city. Everything was so lacking here, everything she enjoyed: the church sociables, theaters, restaurants and weekend literaries.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, Claire looked around the cabin's tiny bedroom. It was crowded, but cozy, and she had to admit the quiet was relaxing. There was far more work here, and it was harder work, but they were easily making the adjustment. Smoothing the cover on the bed, she began to hum softly to herself until her eye caught sight of the round topped trunk sitting in the far corner. Made of sturdy wooden slats, bound with metal at the corners and edges, it had belonged to her mother, and she had carefully transported it west when they moved again. It in were packed her most precious belongings and mementos. Claire told herself it was time to sort through the trunk's contents. It was crammed full, and she wasn't exactly sure what was in it any more.

 _Now is as good a time as any,_ she thought. She peeked out the window again to assure herself the boys were still at play, then turned to the task with determination. Grabbing the worn leather handle, she pulled, putting all her strength into the effort. The trunk slid into the middle of the room with a heavy scraping sound. It was not locked. The things inside were precious only to her.

With trembling fingers she unfastened the latch and opened the lid. The hinges squealed, begging for oil. Something else she would have to attend to. She carefully removed the top layer of newspapers for even they were of value. They had been published in St. Louis in the year 1890. Within the yellowing pages were the last reviews her mother had ever received for a performance. They had been good reviews. _The paper also serves well as stuffing_ , Claire thought with her usual practicality.

The next layer contained mementos from her childhood. A childhood which had come to an early end with the death of her mother. She brushed a silent tear from her cheek. _No sense crying over that now_ ' she thought. Caroline lay on top, her hair slightly flattened by the trunk lid, her face faded and grey with age and loving play. Mama had made Caroline for her when she was only five. She had saved her, hoping someday to give her to her own daughter, should she ever have one. Next to Caroline lay a red velvet pouch, and in it was Mama's Christmas angel. They had taken it with them whenever they travelled at Christmas time, to share with their friends. This Christmas they would share it here.

Slowly, Claire removed the trunk's contents, examined each item and carefully laid them on the bed; a pressed rose her father had given to her mother, Mama's wedding dress, a christening gown of fine French lace. At the very bottom lay a patchwork quilt. Claire's heart beat faster and her throat tightened. She did not want to cry, but this poor quilt, stitched of scraps, held more memories than anything else the trunk contained. With infinite care, she unfolded the multicolored quilt top. The scent of cedar and old newsprint clung to the fabric. It was done in the bear's paw design and each block invoked thoughts of some special event. Although it had never been finished, the quilt seemed to hold most of her life within its stitched seams. And such a labor those seams had been. How many times had she taken them out because they just hadn't been right? It had to be perfect, after all. It was to be a gift.

Here in the corner, a dark brown calico, sprigged with red blossoms, had been a blouse she had worn to the Founder's Day dance the first summer she had lived in Paradise. Mrs. Lawson had won the citizen's award that year for defending the bank against robbers. A dark blue patch of cambric at the center was from one of Joseph's favorite shirts. And the fine lawn of delicate green had been a gift from Mrs. Lawson, as had the red calico. Claire remembered the red calico. It was from a blouse Mrs. Lawson wore when she went riding.

So many memories. Claire touched each block. The .fabrics had held up well. Even those in the block at the very bottom, the one she had never finished. It was made from one of Uncle Ethan's kerchiefs. The fabric was smooth and cool to the touch. _Smooth and cool,_ she thought, and the tears began to flow down her cheeks. She thought of the day Uncle Ethan had found her in the abandoned church to tell her John Taylor was bringing home a cure for the rabies they feared she had contracted after being attacked by a rabid wolf. The church had been dark and cool, but Uncle Ethan had been strong and warm, and his presence so comforting. She had started the quilt as a gift for him. It was to be a special surprise for his birthday, but she'd never finished it. Burying her face it the soft folds, she wept as she had not wept in years.

Then the front door slammed open, and footsteps ran eagerly through the house. She looked up, quickly drying her eyes on a corner of the quilt, as the boys burst into the bedroom.

"Boys," Claire spoke firmly, "you've been told not to run in the house."

Both stopped short. "What are you doing Mama?" "What's this?" "Is it for us?" They fired questions at her faster than she could answer.

"No, sweetheart, this is something I started many years ago." Standing, Claire spread the quilt over the floor, then knelt and took her two young sons into her arms. "Did I ever tell you how we came to live with your great Uncle Ethan in Paradise, when it was just a little town?"

"Uh, huh. I'm named after him," little Ethan replied. "But, Mama, who is the quilt for?"

"I was making it for Uncle Ethan. I stopped working on it the day he was killed."

"But why did you keep it?" Georgie asked.

"I kept it so that someday it would help me tell you all about him, and our life back then. "Come," she said. "It's time to finish this old quilt, and while I work, I have a story to tell you."

(The End)


End file.
